


Antinous

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [12]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, warnings for mentions of drowning in this part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“How I died? I died like the rest of you, like all cowards die. Gunned down like a dog.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Icarus didn't burn. He drowned</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antinous

****

**_1832_ **

Smoke curls through the air as Valjean walks through the night-time streets of Paris. It is late enough for the streets to be deserted, though not so late that there cannot be heard hollering and laughter, shouting and drunken revelry from inside the houses and taverns he passes by.

It is peaceful in an odd sort of way: Valjean is used to noise. Used to it from sleeping in the same room as little children, ill from the cold and lack of food. Used to it from time with prisoners, always rowdy and loud and haunted, even in their sleep _(especially in their sleep)._ The quiet in another town, another life, when he’d had a big house and no-one but himself to live in it, had almost driven him as mad as galleys and chains once had.

Their house in Paris is a different sort of quiet. He appreciates it, the quiet, for perhaps the first time in his life. But even so, it gets hard to sleep in that sort of place, at times, so different, and he takes to walking home just a little later, moving down streets just like this one, enjoying the presence of noise underneath the quiet, voices belonging to faces he cannot see, footsteps in the dark behind him.

He’s being followed and he knows it.

Whoever it is, is doing a good job of ruining it as well: he seems quick, yes, and light on his feet, but too eager: he is on Valjean in exactly the moment the former prisoner expects it, when he has stopped to glance out towards the river running beside him, and it is an almost embarrassingly easy thing to get the upper-hand.

As predicted, the would-be robber is young, dark curls falling into an angelic face and Valjean wonders how someone with so much intelligence shining behind his eyes could ever end up in such a position, needing to rob an old man to get by. He sees the glint of a knife, and has it wrestled out of the young boy’s grip before he can do much with it.

“And what were you going to do with the body, I wonder?” he asks, and the youths eyes widen even more, impossibly so, seeing as they were already round and big as the moon in surprise and shock.

“The Seine is always a good place,” he quips back, and Valjean almost laughs, because at least the boy still has his wits about him. He pulls him back to his feet, allowing the man some breath of air, before asking his name.

“Montparnasse,” the youth says, and it suits him, like the wings of Heaven probably suited Lucifer before they burned up. “At your service.”

Valjean stares at him. “Not quite,” he comments. “It seems to me you are going down a dangerous path. Is it this you wanted?” he pulls out his wallet. Montparnasse shifts, his eyes locked on something behind Valjean, in an obvious move to make him think someone is moving up behind him to attack: Valjean is not falling for it. “Answer me.”

“Actually, it was that lovely thing,” Montparnasse almost laughs, seeing his con not working: he points at the chain hanging from the small pocket in Valjean’s waistcoat, glistening in the moonlight.

The watch. He had all but forgotten about that. He pulls it out with a sigh.

“Take it,” he says. “Take it and be done with it. Sell it. Get a decent job. Why not?” he continues at Montparnasse’s snort of disbelief. “Prison will not be kind to you, young man, and prison is where all young men like you go.”

“I can handle an unkind life. I rather think that is what I am already doing, out here on the streets.”

Valjean laughs, loud and booming at that. “Prison is another matter entirely. How would you like for your face to age, years before its time, for your hair and teeth to fall out, to rot on the misery of your existence?” he dons his hat again, it having fallen off in their brief scuffle, and allows himself to enjoy the look of absolute terror on the youths face. “The watch is a reminder,” he tells him. “Don’t stray from the path again, young Montparnasse.”

 

 

 

****

*

 

 

 

**_present day_ **

****

Cosette looks exhausted, yet she does not fall asleep on the car-drive, though she is close to nodding off a few times. She’s sitting in the backseat, staring out of the passing landscapes, and Enjolras pretends he doesn’t keep glancing back at her.

Maybe it’s to check if she’s still there, because no matter how determined he is in doing this, being alone with Gabriel still makes his skin crawl, for reasons that are obvious and fairly justified, if he says so himself. In that, he is very grateful Cosette decided to come along, as much for help as being a distraction – he can focus better with more people around him. And he needs to focus: he can’t fail. Not now.

Gabriel’s the one behind the wheel, and not a single word is spoken during the entire journey, which feels like it takes days, but in reality is over after only a an hour or so. They’ve made good speed, and they’ve ended up out in front of a hospital, which he had been warned about, but it still makes Enjolras’ hands clench almost involuntarily: it was not long ago he had to visit a hospital because someone he cared about was in danger.

“This won’t take long,” Gabriel says. “Can you wait here for me?”

Cosette shoots him a vary look, and Enjolras is reluctant to agree, but he is also reluctant to do anything that may slow them down, and Gabriel is already half-way out of the car before he can say much more. He’s going to have to go out on a limb and trust him – it’s not a fool-proof plan, but when has anything ever been?

It has become an old mantra now, but he has to try something, anything. And he can’t afford to lose time.

Cosette shifts uncomfortably in the back-seat. “He could be going in and getting back-up to kidnap us, you know,” she says, and Enjolras has to remind himself that she sounds so snarky because she’s tired, and because she is possibly as worried as he is. They’re up in arms, trapped in a situation that isn’t comfortable at all, and they’re getting desperate already, trusting someone they know nothing about, save for the fact that he had a hand in murdering quite a large part of the people currently in this car and several of their friends.

“I know,” he just says, and he can almost physically see Cosette deflate, anger melting away from her features.

“Has he explained to you what we’re going to do?” she asks. The question must have been burning her up the entire way here, yet she hadn’t voiced it. Not with Gabriel in the car.

“There’s another way of getting to the place Grantaire and Eponine are,” Enjolras explains, trying to remember correctly what he had been told the night before. “Or at least of locating them fairly accurately, and travel quickly enough to get to them. It’s a sort of… he described it as a key, that’s hidden, and he’s in there now talking to the person who knows where it is.”

She leans forward in her seat. “Do you think he’ll be successful?”

The doors open, and Gabriel comes out. Enjolras grits his teeth.

“I hope so,” he says, watching the other man walk over and get into the car. “That was fast.”

“I can be very persuasive,” Gabriel says, shooting him a big grin and Enjolras can feel the relief coursing through his body like its being planted in his veins. “Are you ready for this?”

“What is it he has to do exactly?” Cosette chimes in again, eyes locked on Gabriel as they swing out of the hospital’s parking-lot. “Do we just drive to this place and the key, or whatever, will be there waiting on a velvet pillow?”

Enjolras sighs. “Apparently there are tests.”

“Tests.”

“Yes.”

“Like Jehan’s dead mother trying to convince him to mass-murder us all kind of test, or are you going to an exam?”

“It’s very complicated, Cosette,” Gabriel says, voice patient. “The key will be protected so that other people can’t just get to it. According to my source, it has to be someone with a close connection to the people we’re looking for that collects it.”

“So Enjolras has to go on some daunting adventure,” Cosette’s voice is as flat as Enjolras’ had been the night before, and he almost (almost!) cracks a smile at that. “What, in the name of love?”

Gabriel frowns. “I thought you rather said you wanted to help.”

“I do, I just don’t understand why all of this has to be so difficult,” she leans back in her seat again, briefly catching Enjolras’ eyes in the rear-view mirror. It’s about then that he realizes she is genuinely worried about him.

“It’s fine,” he finds himself telling her, even though it really isn’t. “Gabriel has already informed me on as much as he can. I know the risks I’m taking.”

He’s always known the risks. He can handle the danger to himself.

He can’t handle not ever getting Grantaire back because he was too much of a coward to try.

“I still don’t like it,” she says, even though she looks a bit more appeased. “But I don’t like any of this. Isn’t it your people that made those fail-safe-key-thingies? Why would someone else have them?”

“Either because they stole them or because they used to be one of us.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that not everyone passes their tests,” Gabriel stops for a red light, knuckles turning white as he clutches at the wheel of the car. “And those that don’t… that don’t die from it, they either join up with Michael or they… they disappear. They refuse to work with the rest of us, to let us help them. A few of them have sort of banded together. A couple of years ago they figured out how to open… pockets, you can call it. Like places that aren’t really there and can only be accessed through the fail-safe. We use them for escaping and to have places of protection, when things really get tough. They’ve commandeered some of the ones we abandoned.”

“So either our friends are in the clutches of what you describe as a completely evil entity who wants to either corrupt or kill them, or they’re with… refugees? People like us, except they weren’t deemed good enough to be in the elite?”

“It’s not like that,” Gabriel says, his voice hurried and defensive now. “It’s… it’s complicated.”

“Well, I know I’m hoping for the refugees,” Cosette mumbles under her breath, and in that moment Enjolras feels such a burst of affection for the girl, that the next words almost come involuntarily, though he can’t find it in himself to regret them.

“What about Fantine?”

Gabriel’s foot hit the brakes, and they careen forwards, seat-belts digging into his ribs and shoulder.

“Fucking hell!”

For such a sweet, kind girl, Cosette sure does have a mouth on her.

“Sorry,” Gabriel mutters, quickly driving again, possibly thank-full that there are no other cars on this fairly deserted road. “Sorry, I… that was…”

“Where is she?” Enjolras persists, nonchalantly brushing the mishap away. “Is she a refugee as well?”

Gabriel’s eyes flicker to him and back to the road again. “Um, she, no… she passed her test. She’s been working with Mabeuf for a couple of years now. Um… oh, look, we’re here!”

‘Here’ turns out to be a lake hidden behind a grove of trees, just in the outskirts of a forest that Enjolras does not remember being in this particular area at all. Nevertheless, it’s there right in front of them, and Gabriel practically falls out of the car in his haste to get away, the two others following at a more sane pace.

“He’s hiding something big time, that’s good to know,” Cosette mumbles, coming around the car to talk to him in semi-private: her voice is hushed so Gabriel or whoever might be hiding in the bushes doesn’t hear. “Um, thanks, I guess.”

“My instincts are telling me to trust him: and I’m sure whatever he’s panicking about, it’s because Mabeuf set up some ridiculous rule regarding your mother. She’s fine, and I’m sure you’ll see her soon.”

Cosette smiles at him. “That was a sweet load of bullshit to say, Enjolras. Don’t frown at me: my glass may not be half-empty, but I do try to see the world as it is. If she wanted to see me, she would have found me by now.” She can’t quite stop her voice from shaking at the last part, skipping quickly over words like she’s walking barefoot on particularly sharp rocks.

“Sometimes,” Enjolras starts, awkwardly, feeling like he has to say something, because he had been the one to bring this up. “Sometimes it can take us a good while to… find the right thing to look for. And even then we start going about it the wrong ways, and we create a mess, and it can be a lot easier to hide from it, instead of facing it.”

“That was actually not a completely bad analogy, even if it was comparing my non-relationship with my mother to your very present one with your boyfriend. The difference being that you know Grantaire loves you and he knows that you love him.”

His slight flinch and avoidance of her eyes at that is a completely involuntarily reaction. Nevertheless, he can practically feel the force of Cosette’s frown.

“You _have_ told him that you love him, right?” she asks, moving closer and trying to catch his eyes. Enjolras avoids this by staring up at the sky instead. “Enjolras? Oh, c’mon. Please tell me you’ve said it – please tell me you’ve at least admitted it to yourself. I don’t even know you that well, and _I_ can see it.”

“Then I’m sure he can too, if it’s really that obvious.”

“No, you’re mistaking Grantaire for a person who actually thinks they’re worth being loved. And don’t give me that look like I’ve just thrown a kitten off a bridge,” she narrows her eyes at him: it is weird to think that they’ve been at odds so many times, and he has never felt the full brunt of her glare before. It’s kind of frightening. As in, _really frightening._ “Do you love him?”

He doesn’t… he can’t…

“Enjolras…” her voice is soft now, the hard stare gone. “You’re about to do something amazing and dangerous, extremely dangerous, and I don’t doubt that you love Eponine and appreciates that she bakes damn good brownies and that they’re not both your friends and you wouldn’t have done anything to get them back regardless, because it’s what you do, but… you don’t know what you might have to do in there. You don’t know what… if it might change you, if it’ll be… you need to be prepared, and you need to… God, I don’t even know. I’ve watched too many films, I know, but there’s always a price to pay and this is already a decision we’re rushing headfirst into and I don’t… I don’t want to have to explain to the others why I’m dragging your cold dead body back, Enjolras.”

He meets her eyes. “I understand that.”

“Good, because… I just want you to be sure of what you’re doing and why you’re doing it, because if you have the slightest bit of doubt, then… then I’m scared you’re not going to make it.”

He knows the risks. He does. She is right, he is rushing into this, but… but he has to.

“Enjolras?”

“I owe him,” he blurts out. “I’m… he’s going to hate me for saying this, because he’s going to misunderstand the sentiment like usual, and it’s not about paying off debts, it’s about… I owe him. So much. Even if there was an incentive to repay him, I don’t think I ever could, and… and that’s not the reason, it’s… I’m in love with him. You’re right, I’m… I’m in love with Grantaire, and I haven’t told him because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to have a functioning relationship, but this, Cosette, _this_ is something I can do. This is something I _will_ do. For him.”

He wonders if his expression matches hers right now: frightened. Hopeful. Scared and believing, and very determined.

“Good,” she mumbles. “That’s all I wanted to hear, really.”

Enjolras can’t help but let out a small laugh. “Is it very bad that I said I loved him to you before I said it to him?”

“A little bit, but I don’t think he’ll mind,” she says. Her tone turns serious. “What he _will_ mind, very much so, is being told you died trying to get to him. Especially if he isn’t in any real danger.”

Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek, hard. “I can’t take the chance that he isn’t.” She nods, and he turns around. “Gabriel, we’re ready.”

“Great,” the man says: he’s nervously swaying from one foot to the other. He looks pale. “It’s uh… the key is sort of in the river.”

Enjolras doesn’t falter as he walks forward. “Good thing I know how to swim.” He takes off his jacket. “Do you have your gun on you?”

“Yes, but you can’t exactly use it underwater,” the man deadpans.

“Give it to Cosette.”

Gabriel is used to following orders. Enjolras is good at giving them. Cosette takes the gun with a small smile.

“You know how to use it?”

Cosette smiles widely. “I know how to use a gun.”

“Good. Shoot him if he tries anything,” he says, untying his shoes.

“I feel a bit like I deserved that, so I’m not going to say anything,” Gabriel mutters. He reaches forward and grabs Enjolras’ arm. “There’s a small opening in the side of the rocks underneath: it’s not far, you’ll be able to hold your breath. It leads to a cave, and the key is in there. Make sure to keep track of which opening you came in through: if you pick the wrong one, I have no idea where you might end up.”

“Any chance of the cave collapsing?”

“It’s been there for a pretty long while. It’s sturdy,” Gabriel’s grip tightens. “Enjolras… whatever you see in there, whatever you hear, whoever you speak to, whatever they try to tell you that you need to do… _don’t listen._ It’s not real.  Just get the key, and get out again.”

He lets his arm go, and Enjolras suddenly feels off-balance without the pressure of it, words and memories sneaking up and attacking him from behind, just like the day he remembered.

“Good luck,” Cosette tells him, and it’s the last thing he hears before he’s dived under.

The water is murky green and hard to see through, the sunlight barely reaching the surface of it, as if being repelled by the dirt and the edginess of the whole place. He’s spots what looks like an entrance, a faint light shining from a crack just big enough for a grown man to squeeze through.

And then something reaches up and pulls him down further.

It’s not a hand, and it’s not vines, it’s not _anything,_ but suddenly he’s trapped, letting out air in a shout of surprise before he can stop it, ears ringing in panic, heart beating in fright as he fights to swim forward, upwards, anything, and something swims past his head, something big and _black_ , and he’s being pulled _under_ and someone hisses in his ear.

_“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”_

They have a hold on his shoulder now, his arms and his legs, no matter how hard he kicks he can’t get free, nails boring into something that _isn’t there,_ blood filling his mouth as he bites down on his tongue, trying not to scream and let out more air, trying not to panic and take a breath underwater and…

_“You’ll see him again if you open your eyes.”_

Enjolras had not been aware that his eyes were closed: so he opens them.

 

“I’m fairly certain,” it is a wonder even after all these years, that someone can drink so much and yet not have his speech slurred. “That the success-rate for rallies such as these are somewhere between zero and… is it nada or is it none?”

“You’re not funny,” Bossuet tells Grantaire firmly, because it’s late and they’ve been at this all day. Enjolras can feel the tiredness all the way into his bones, and it is probably only coffee keeping him going right now.

“On the contrary,” Grantaire says, taking up the whole room as the only being with enough energy to actually stand upright on his own. “I am a creature of wit and whimsy, and my japes are wide-sung across the nations.”

Courfeyrac actually starts laughing at that, and even Joly cracks a small smile. Enjolras forces himself to glare, irritation growing beneath his skin.

“Grantaire, if nothing but idiocy is going to come out of you tonight, could you please leave?”

Grantaire puts on a mock-hurt face, pouting like it’s his last day on earth. “But I am merely trying to help, dear, sweet Apollo.”

_“That’s not right, is it?”_

“After all,” the bottle swings in his hand, green colours catching the light. He’d worn green in a previous life as well, but it is not a life that Enjolras remembers. Not in this moment. “To have a successful rally, you have to actually have the people backing you up. And let’s be real here, selfish bastards that the lot of them are, they’re just not going to do that. They’re going to stay home, in their beds, where it’s safe and warm and cosy, because in the end, they _just don’t care.”_

“They do,” Combeferre interferes before Enjolras can start shouting, already feeling the rage give him new energy. “Grantaire, you have seen it. You’re seeing it right now,” he smiles slightly. “Aren’t we all here?”

“Oh, please, as if you’re any kind of real standard. You’re all up for Saint-hood,” Grantaire says, and though his voice is teasing, there’s an undercurrent of honesty in it, eyes flickering to Enjolras and looking away again in haste as he catches them.

“It’s like that old story about Icarus. He flew too close to the sun and burned up. People are afraid the same is going to happen to them - not all of us can stand the heat like you can. They’re going to get too ambitious, they’re going to think they can get away with too much, and they’re going to burn until there is nothing but ashes left.”

“Icarus didn’t burn, his wax-wings melted,” Enjolras says, and it is a testimony to just how tired he is, that he’s correcting Grantaire’s storytelling instead of counter-arguing his ridiculous points. “And then he crashed into the ocean and drowned.”

“He’s dead either way,” Grantaire mocks.

Enjolras opens his mouth to yell, and his lungs fill with murky water _(green, the water is green like a bottle reflecting in the sunlight)_ , just as he is let free again, and he tries to swim upwards, vision turning white, hand knocking sharply against rocks: he tries to ignore the pain, grasping for something to hold, and he finds the edge and pulls himself up and forwards, air hitting his face as he resurfaces.

He’s not sure how, but he manages to pull himself up into the small cave-room, lying on the ground and gasping for breath, feeling the ghost of hands pulling him down, a voice he doesn’t recognize in his ear. _Apollo. Apollo. Apollo, that’s not right._

_Icarus didn’t burn, he fell into the ocean and he drowned._

Enjolras coughs up water until his head is spinning, and he’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating when Grantaire walks over and kneels down beside him.

“You’re going to be fine,” he tells him, blue eyes sparkling. “But seriously, I know I’m an ambitious drinker, but this was just a bit too much, wasn’t it?”

He breathes in air in large gulps. “You’re not real,” he says. Grantaire frowns.

“Rude. Though I suppose you’re about to argue how I’m not real if we consider the fact that we’re all made out of atoms created from stardust and reused through time. Or are you going from a philosophical stand-point, where again the soul doesn’t really have a beginning nor an end, making my individuality more of a moot-point, because technically I have always existed, _but_ to be fair that would mean that I was real in _any_ moment, even the ones I wasn’t even really in. And shouldn’t you be the first to advocate individuality of the people?”

“You…”

“No, please, I love it when you talk like that. Go crazy. It’s very sexy, actually.”

Enjolras can’t help it, he knows this isn’t real, but he grins back at Grantaire anyway, Grantaire who looks a little startled at the response, and shyly grins back. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights for a short moment. It’s not heartbreaking. It’s not.

“I’m so sorry it didn’t work out between us,” he says then, and Enjolras heart drops.

“Wha…” he can’t even get the word out, interrupted by another bout of disgusting lake-water coming out through his mouth and nose.

“Yes, well, it’s a bit hard when you’re dead. And having a relationship with a corpse is just a whole new ball-game that I am not going anywhere near, sorry, no thank-you.”

Enjolras forces himself to sit up, arms shaky as they support him. “I’m not dead,” he says, trying to ignore the hand that had knocked against the rocks: the bones in two of his fingers definitely don’t feel good, and there is a cut on his knuckles, oozing blood and filling with dirty water.

Grantaire frowns. “But you are,” he says. “Isn’t that what you were supposed to do, die for me and all that? Oh, it’s actually almost kind of romantic – it’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me, at least. It’s so sweet – catch me, I’m swooning,” Grantaire does a fainting motion, complete with hand over his forehead, grinning wildly at his own antics.

“Still not dead,” Enjolras informs him. “My entire body hurts too much for me to be dead.”

Grantaire nods. “Yeah, there is that. That’s usually a pretty good indicator. Although… I bet you felt it when you were shot. That last moment, metal piercing your flesh like that. I know I did.”

Enjolras stops, forgetting the pain in his lungs, his hand, his head. “You don’t remember,” he says, in shock.

“Of course I remember,” Grantaire snorts. “I did all along. Come on, does it really make sense that everyone would, except for me? I remembered all along.”

There are blue eyes hard as flint staring at him, and Enjolras forgets Gabriel’s warnings. “Why wouldn’t you say anything?” he whispers. Eight bullets piercing his skin. Piercing his heart.

“Because you failed,” Grantaire shouts in incredulity, his voice ringing through the small cave, making even the water stir behind them. “Because you died for _nothing_ , just like I said you would. Because all along, I was right and you were just too much of a naïve little whelp to realize that. Hell, even when you saw all your friends die you wouldn’t quite admit to yourself that this was really happening, would you? It’s almost a little bit funny, isn’t it? You were all so sure. You thought, maybe we won’t succeed, but at least we’ll have tried with everything we have. But no-one came. They all gave up, or were gunned down before they could really _do_ anything. A group which barely missed becoming historic – a group that doesn’t even deserve a whole page in the history text-books. It’s kind of pathetic isn’t it? I’d rather have as little to do with it as possible.”

Enjolras can feel it, something coming out of the water behind him, reaching forward. It’s darkness, spreading in his mind as well. It doesn’t intend for him to survive this: it has already tried to pull him under once, water and memories drowning him alike.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, and the shadow shifts, slightly, but they do, moving away again.

“Of course I do. I say it all the time, don’t I? People are selfish. People are cruel. The world isn’t going to change, no matter how many speeches a pretty boy holds, how many words fall off his fine, little tongue. You know me, you know who I am – you know I have never believed in anything.”

“If you are really Grantaire,” Enjolras says, interrupting because he can’t hear this, can’t stand hearing those words spoken with that voice, not in an almost apology or with scorn to hide his hurt, but in actual hate, anger and brutality lacing every word. “If you’re really him and you do remember, then tell me how you died.”

Grantaire lifts an eyebrow in surprise. “How I died? I died like the rest of you, like all cowards die. Gunned down like a dog.”

Enjolras grits his teeth and pushes himself up to stand, ignoring the pain, ignoring the looks Grantaire shoots him: he does not look at the… it’s not a man. It’s not Grantaire. He walks past, heading to the middle of the small cave where a large gathering of rocks are, something silver peeking out from the top, glinting in the faint light of the cave.

“Enjolras?”

He almost stops, because Grantaire is pleading, sounds hurt and scared and confused.

But that’s _not_ Grantaire. Enjolras ignores him, and shifts the rocks around, digging out the small silver-object that he presumes is the key. It does not look like a regular key: it is instead a long, thin and curved thing, with numbers down the side.

“Enjolras, please.”

“Stop it,” he demands. “Just stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire – it’s _not_ Grantaire – is still sitting on the cave-floor, but all malice is gone, eyes wide and round as he stares up at Enjolras. “I’m so sorry. I’m trying, I really am.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I _know_.”

“And I would never… I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Enjolras hardly has time to duck out of the way as the ceiling _collapses_ , and really, fuck Gabriel for _‘it’s sturdy’_. There is dust everywhere, and he’s thrown himself to the ground, scraping his chin, everything that hurt before hurting even more now and then he realises that he’s dropped the key.

He’s desperately scrambling for it when the thing that isn’t Grantaire walks over, silver-object glinting through his fingers.

“That was almost too easy,” he says.

“Give it back,” Enjolras demands: he is not expecting the mocking laugh, and it hurts because it’s _Grantaire_ , but then it stops when he realizes that the man he loves does not bear that kind of cruelty, could never make that kind of sound.

“Give it back,” he repeats. “Right now.”

“Let’s play a game,” Not-Grantaire suggests, leaning against the intact cave-wall a few feet away, his tone mocking. “You are a great speaker, so if you can convince me to give you the key, like you have convinced so many to stand up against injustice, then I will give it to you.”

“And let me get out of here alive,” Enjolras adds. Not-Grantaire makes a face at him.

“Damn,” he mumbles. “Fine. If you are convincing enough, I’ll give you back the key and let you go with your life.”

“And you’ll stop whatever thing is in the lake from getting to me as well.”

“We’re demanding quite a lot now, I think. You escaped it last time, I’m sure you can do it again.”

“Your only purpose here is to protect that key,” Enjolras hisses. “If I get it, it won’t matter either way. Say you’ll let me go freely.”

Not-Grantaire narrows his eyes. “You are a very brave, plucky, annoying young gentleman, has anyone ever told you that?”

Enjolras smirks. Usually those words come from the same mouth speaking them now.

“Alright, I promise. Go ahead then – _convince me_.”

“I need that key,” Enjolras says, immediately: he can’t allow himself to think about this. He just needs to talk. “And you’re going to give it to me, because somehow I’ve made it this far. Because somehow, whatever was in that lake couldn’t keep hold of me, and I hardly even did anything.”

“Daisy’s getting kind of old, it’s not that hard to fight her off,” not-Grantaire mumbles. Enjolras ignores him.

“I need that key, because I need to get to someone I love. Someone who might be in danger, and I will never forgive myself if anything happens to him.”

“You mean if anything happens to him _again._ I know all of this already, darling, I’ve picked through your memories like dusty old files. So cut the jibber-jabber, please.”

“I need him,” Enjolras’ voice rises in volume, echoing in the small cave. “I need that key, because I don’t know what to do without him, because I _love him_ , and I don’t know what to do if I let him down again. This might be my only chance, and I am not going to stop, I am never going to stop until he’s back with me and the others. Where he belongs.”

He wishes – wishes fiercely – that this was the real Grantaire currently staring at him, that this was the real man he had said those things to: he wishes he could say them, and watch Grantaire’s eyes light up because he _believes_ him, wishes he could reach out and touch skin streaked with paint, coarse jeans, stubble because he’s been too lazy to shave again, dark curls as soft as silk.

He spits his last words out. “So give me that _fucking_ key. _”_

Dust is still settling in the air, and his knee is bleeding as well now, possibly from impact with the ground. He wonders if they are going to sit here long enough for him to bleed to death. Then Not-Grantaire lets out a loud snort.

“That was great, really, but I don’t think so. You’re not getting the key.”

Enjolras stands up again. “You don’t know very much about me,” he says. Not-Grantaire’s eyes widen in mock-surprise, his appearance flickering and changing, a man he doesn’t know overlapping with features he knows too well.

“What are you going to do, fight me?”

“If I have to,” Enjolras moves closer. The creature doesn’t stir from its spot. “I said I’d do anything.”

“Sometimes I’m not too sure you’re quite aware of the consequences of what you’re saying.”

He’s close enough to touch now. “I’m very aware,” Enjolras says. “But I asked you a question earlier. I asked you if you knew how you – how Grantaire – had died.”

“If you’re looking for reassurance, I can tell you that he isn’t dead. Yet at least. Not like you will be, in a manner of… minutes? Seconds? You probably have minutes.”

“He died _with me_ ,” Enjolras tells him and reaches forward, hand pushing through what should have been clothes and flesh, but it’s smoke and air instead, and he reaches something he thinks is the heart, what should be the heart of this thing, reaches through it, and the key drops to the floor, the creature following along, gasping for breath it doesn’t need.

Enjolras picks up the key and waves away smoky fingers trying to reach for him, trying to pull him in again.

“Stop that,” he tells it. “You’re not real. Whatever power you think you have, it’s only whatever power I give you. It was a clever disguise, dressing up like the one person who affects me the most, but the illusion is broken now.”

He is answered by laughter. “Good luck getting out of here.”

He stands up and looks at the various entrances surrounding the cave, and Enjolras has no idea which one he came in from.

_Well, fuck._

 

*

 

 

By the end of the fourth hour, Cosette has no more finger-nails left to bite down, and she’s started twirling her hair nervously instead, checking and re-checking the gun, and also really itching to shoot something.

“You’re making me kind of worried,” Gabriel confesses by the time four hours and fifteen minutes have passed. Cosette gets up from the log she’d been sitting on.

“I’m going in,” she says, taking off her jacket and placing the gun on the ground.

“You… _what?”_

“I said I’m going in. He might need help,” she’s pulling off her shoes when Gabriel reaches out to stop her.

“No, Cosette…. It doesn’t work like that. There are rules. If you help him get out, even with the key, it will lose its power. He needs to do this alone.”

He jumps in fright when she hurls her shoe away in anger. “That is bullshit!” she shouts, seconds away from punching Gabriel in the face, more because he is the only person here than because she is actually mad at him. She knows this isn’t his fault.

“It kind of is, yeah,” Gabriel sighs. “These rules, they’re all about testing your limits, seeing how much you can take before you break.”

Cosette clenches her hands into fists. “And when will Enjolras break?”

“You tell me: you know him better.”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know him that well. We’re hardly even friends.”

“You were just about to go jumping into the water for someone you don’t even consider your friend?” Gabriel’s voice is soft, as if he’s digging up a point she fails to see. Cosette’s shoulders sag.

“I mean… I want to be his friend. He’s as brilliant as Marius’ always said. They all are. I’m glad we’re back, I’m glad I got to meet them. But no, right now, we aren’t really friends. And that’s certainly not going to change if he dies!” she spins around in frustration, glancing towards the lake, when she catches a glimpse of something in the water.

“He’s right there!”

And yeah, Cosette doesn’t let herself think, she’s thrown herself into the lake before Gabriel can stop her, because fuck, Enjolras is unconscious. It is not the first time she’s thankful for the swimming lessons her papa made her take, and she’s hauled Enjolras back to the shore before Gabriel can even get down there: he reaches down for him, pulling him out and onto the ground, and Enjolras’ head is hardly out of the water two seconds before he starts coughing up water.

“Is he alright?” Cosette asks as she pulls herself up as well: she swears she feels something brushing her ankle for a brief moment, but she’s out of the water in the next second, and it disappears. “Gabriel?”

“Unless he’s hit his head,” he mumbles, and starts laughing when Enjolras finds the energy to give him the finger.

“He’s bleeding!”

“He’s… he’s fine, absolutely fine,” Enjolras mutters, though he reaches up his damaged hand, and she thinks he wants her to look at it, inspect the wounds, but then he somehow wrestles his fingers open from the fist they were making, and he really should not be able to do that, they look busted as hell, and a long, thin silver rectangle falls into her open palms.

“You did it,” she laughs. “You actually did it.”

“I said I would.”

“You’re brilliant!”

Enjolras turns himself slightly, looking up at her. “Thanks for getting me out,” he says, voice serious. She puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles.

“Anytime. Now we should probably be getting you to a hospital?”

“No time,” Enjolras insists, and okay, Cosette is going to murder him.

“You need a change of clothes, you’re drowsed in slimy lake-water. And there’s a first aid-kit in the car, at least let me patch you up.”

“We don’t have time for…”

“Enjolras, when I say _‘at least let me’_ I mean ‘ _let me or I will cut off a part of you that both you and Grantaire will sorely miss’.”_

He blinks at her in surprise or quite possible shock, though that might be the almost-drowning: Gabriel is shaking as he tries to hold back his laughter.

“Alright,” Enjolras concedes, and even lets Gabriel help him back to the car, as Cosette quickly finds the first-aid kit, telling him to sit still after he’s changed into something less soaked, as she cleans up his wounds and wraps them up as best as she can.

“Your fingers look pretty bad, but I don’t think they’re broken. Try not to move them too much though. How’s your head?”

“It doesn’t really hurt. I don’t think I hit it. More spinning after, well…”

“After swallowing half a lake and then throwing it up again.”

“If you want to be romantic about it.”

She smiles slightly, though it quickly falls away. “What did you… what did you see in there?”

Enjolras tenses, but he doesn’t seem angry or even frightened. More like he’s considering how to answer.

“I saw pain and failure,” he says then. “I saw… it was just a trick of the mind, like Gabriel said. Something put there to make you believe you didn’t stand a chance.”

“And you remembered to mark the right entrance when you get in?”

He lets out a ‘pff’-sound. “Not really.”

“Well, that was foolish of you.”

“I know, I did kick myself about it. But then I looked for the entrance with the most water and blood at it, and I figured that was the right one.”

“And then you passed out?”

A shadow falls over his face. “Then something in the lake tried to drown me. Again.”

Cosette shivers. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah. It was a good thing you were there to pull me out.”

She ducks her head slightly, hiding her smile. “Well…”

“Thank-you. And for coming with me as well.”

She focuses on packing away the first aid-kit, fiddling with the supplies.

“We were there, you know,” she says then. “When they finally overthrew the King. Sixteen years, and I never… but we were there, when it happened, and I thought… he always missed you, Marius, like I missed my papa and… but sixteen years go a long way to dull pain. But he looked so happy, on that day. So happy, and so sad. And then sixteen years isn’t that much when you’ve lost your family, I guess,” she hastily puts down the box. “Sorry, I’m rambling. You’re probably wondering why I’m even telling you this.”

“I’m glad for it,” Enjolras says. “Thank-you.”

“You’re thanking me a lot tonight,” she teases, trying to ease whatever tension there might be. Enjolras smiles slightly.

“It’s this whole new plan I have where I’m not a dick to people.”

Cosette snorts. “You’re not a dick, Enjolras. You’re one of the best people I know. You just have a temper. I mean, everyone’s always going on about how kind I am, but I nearly brained Gabriel with my shoe earlier.”

“Which was very scary,” said man chimes in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eaves-drop. Is the patient all patched up?”

“Patched up and ready to go, according to himself at least,” Cosette says, fighting every nurse-instinct telling her to help him as he gets up from his spot and walks around to the front of the car. “Where are we going now?”

“Away from here,” Gabriel says, starting the car as soon as she gets in, hardly giving her time to close the door. “This place gives me the creeps, and it’s probably better to activate the key somewhere else.”

Cosette notices that Enjolras says nothing, but she thinks of the scared look in his eyes at first, the blood on him, and yeah, he’ll probably want to get away from this place as quickly as he can as well.

They don’t drive for long, ending up back in the outskirts of the city: it feels almost as if they had stepped from one world to another, and Cosette has trouble remembering the road they’d gone to get to the place with the key. They end up parking next to a shed of all things, Gabriel opening the door with ease, and Cosette really hopes he owns the place or is at least allowed in there, and then she shuts down those worrying-instincts and thinks they’re probably beyond that anyway.

It’s not like they’re going to be staying there for long.

“Alright,” Gabriel says, pulling up a small table and clearing it. “I need the key, and I need something of Grantaire’s and something of Eponine’s.”

Enjolras opens the bag he’d brought along, pulling out a pencil and a…

“Is that a butterfly knife?” Cosette asks, inspecting the item in the near-darkness. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Remind me to never get on Eponine’s bad side,” Gabriel mutters. Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“So you don’t want us to mention to her that you and your men killed her and her brother?”

Gabriel flinches. “Is that in order to remind me why I’m helping you now?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to… betray you, or do a turn-about at the last minute. I want to help.”

“That’s good, because Cosette still has the gun,” Enjolras says, and Cosette puts on her best hyena-smile. She’d already been good at it, but Eponine had been giving her private lessons. She knows for a fact that it’s goddamn terrifying now.

“Okay then,” Gabriel mutters, picking up a shovel that had been left to the side. “Step away, ladies and gentlemen. And then just… hang on.”

Cosette does not have time to ask him what he means by that, because he has already smashed the key to pieces, and a loud, wailing sound fills the air and she is blinded by a bright, white light.

She opens her eyes again and she’s lying on her back in a forest. Birds are chirping and the moonlight is streaming in, hitting her face. She must have been out for a while.

“Cosette?”

“Over here,” she croaks, sitting up slowly, checking for any injuries. “I’m fine.” Gabriel comes over and helps her up, Enjolras close behind. “Where are we?”

“Right where we wanted to be,” Gabriel says. “Unfortunately, we arrived a little later than planned.”

Cosette turns around and sees a big old building, almost a castle, the door broken down and a girl with flaming red hair lying on the grass beside it, eyes open and staring at nothing. 

“Is she…”

“She’s dead,” Enjolras confirms, his voice harsh. “She’s the only one here. Someone attacked them. Recently. She hasn’t gone all cold yet.”

Cosette shivers in the night-air. “Shit,” she mumbles. “Fucking hell.”

“I think that about sums it up, yes.”

“What about the rest? Grantaire and Eponine?”

“They’re not here anymore,” Gabriel says. “The place has been abandoned.”

Cosette jumps in fright as Enjolras’ hand suddenly flies out and hits the remains of the door, wood flying everywhere: half of her mind is thinking that it’s probably good it wasn’t the hand that was already hurt, but really, now both of them are, so there is that as well.

“Seriously,” she hisses at him, walking up to check the damage. He doesn’t fight, and she almost stops at that: his eyes look as dead as the girl by their feet when they look at her.

“We’re too late,” he says.

“It’s going to be fine,” Cosette lies, checking over his injuries as Gabriel starts digging a grave for the dead girl. “We’re going to find them.”

The dead girl is a warning signal, sure, but it only makes her feel more determined than ever. She’s not going to walk up and find her friends in that girl’s place next time. She isn’t going to let that happen.

She hears the sound of the shovel Gabriel had been using falling to the ground, and Enjolras eyes widen.

“Well, fuck,” she mumbles as she turns to see two armed men come out of the surrounding forest, aiming at them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This part is dedicated to dear, sweet Hath, who caught on to Grantaire likening himself to Icarus 'burning up' earlier in the fic, when in fact he drowned. Cookies for being clever and spotting the most obscure plot-device I have possibly ever used.
> 
> In the book, Enjolras is described as _’a savage Antinous’_ or _’Antinous wild’._ Antinous was the young lover of the Emporer Hadrian, and he supposedly drowned himself to bring luck and younger life to Hadrian: they were extremely devoted to each other, and Hadrian ended up building several cities, and establishing festivals in his honour.


End file.
